Oh No!
by Pekenota14
Summary: Sherlock pranks Mycroft, his big brother gets his revenge too. So, Sherlock realizes he needs to find easier people to prank when he's bored. (All thanks to Tumblr and their headcanon!)
1. Sherlock's prank

**I'd like to thank Tumblr for the marvelous idea. All I have to say is "Headcanon accepted!". Oh, and enjoy! ^_^**

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Cautiously he turned the key in lock. He twisted the doorknob slowly so that it wouldn't trigger any noise. Once he entered, he walked directly, but quietly, to his brother's bedroom. There he was sleeping without even knowing that Sherlock was walking around the house.

He smirked upon the thought of how easily he could strangle him; he did say at John's wedding that it'd be utterly easy to do so. Oh, the so many times Mycroft had annoyed him, and the so many different scenarios he had pictured in his mind that resulted in perfect homicidal opportunities. Still he shook his head. He had annoyed him once again, and now he was going to set of scores like the very grown up man he was. Over the bedside table were a book and his reading glasses placed on top of it. His phone was there too, with the screen facing down. And so he started his very mature and evil-ish revenge plan.

He turned over the phone and moved the book and the glasses to opposite edge of the bedside table. Then he glanced the bedroom; there it was the door to his walk-in-wardrobe. There Mycroft kept all his suits, shirts, ties and shoes, perfectly lined and categorized according to colour and usage. Sherlock had a tingling feeling inside, excited like a small infant, not even knowing where to start messing with his brother's very organized wardrobe.

He quickly found enough ideas to make Mycroft go crazy as he disorganized no more than five suits, four pair of shoes, three ties and two shirts. Yes, he perfectly calculated that way so he'd leave his brother wondering what had he done with the _one_ belt. Satisfied with his sadistic deed he moved to the living room. He couldn't do much without creating much noise so he was very thorough with what he was going to do.

Of course-just moving all the furniture _slightly_ out of alignment would be spot on. Moving the table, the chairs, the couch. He did the same in the kitchen, leaving cabinets' doors open and changing places of products and packages. Though, when he got to his office room, Sherlock felt tempted in overstepping the mark. He took some books of the bookshelf and scattered them all over the floor. Everything that was over Mycroft's desk was changed place too; what was on the right was moved to the left and vice-versa. Ultimately he couldn't resist in dragging the chair to the outside of the room. He ended up leaving it by the closed door of the office room.

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Mycroft had not even put his feet on the floor and could sense that something was wrong with his house. Every morning he stretches his hand to grab his phone. Today was no different, except for the fact that his still sleepy eyes gazed the back of the phone. He opened his eyes and noticed that the book was at the end of the bedside table. He kicked his sleepiness away as he kicked back the bed sheets. Looking up at the rest of the room, something struck him immediately. The walk-in-closet. The door was slightly open and he could see a red shirt. The red shirt _is_ not kept there.

He walked to check on his clothing noticing immediately which were out of place. Five suits, four pair of shoes, three ties, two shirts and one… It had to be _one_ thing out of place, it was the rational thought. He double-checked his clothing arrangement and realized nothing else had been moved. Making his way to the kitchen he nearly collapsed on the floor as he saw cabinet's doors open and things out of their usual spots. Mycroft did not care about his tea anymore. He was not enjoying that joke anymore and he was sure that his whole house had been messed around.

"Oh dear…" He mumbled as an overwhelming sense of uneasiness came over him.

Everything was out of place. _Mere inches_, yes, but nothing was at its exact place. The office room… He breathed out deeply once he saw the chair outside the closed door. He moved it away and opened the door. Immediately he grasped tightly the doorframe. Books were laid all over the floor and his desk was mirrored.

"Ah, Sherlock," He sighed, boiling inside. "you've come too far to play with me."

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**Would it be fair for Sherlock to prank Mycroft like this and expect him to do nothing? Of course not! Mycroft will set the scores right again in the next chapter.**


	2. Mycroft's retaliation

**So here it is the new chapter. Enjoy! ^_^**

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Sherlock got out of his flat, raising his hand, making a cab stop. Mycroft watched him from afar and when his brother was long gone down the road he started walking to 221B, whirling the umbrella as he strolled up the street, having a smoke.

He rang the bell and while he waited for the door to be opened, he threw the cigarette on the floor and extinguished it, twisting his foot over it.

"Oh, what a lovely surprise," Mrs. Hudson said. "but Sherlock left just now. I suppose you'll wait for him, so I'll make you a cuppa-"

"Do not say another word." Mycroft told to the woman as she stepped back to let him in. "Bring some cleaning products and follow me."

"Cleaning products?" She asked, puzzled but Mycroft ignored her, making his way upstairs. "Why would I need them?"

The landlady followed after Mycroft and watched him stripping off his jacket and hanging it on the coat hanger. Then he walked to the window, observing the outside with his hands behind his back.

"Don't you agree that my brother's lack of hygiene is a bit of a problem?"

"He is very messy but he says that I can't touch anything because everything is at its proper place."

"He used that same answer with Mummy." Mycroft told her as he turned. "Now you have a chance to clean his flat and get rid of all of this… dirtiness."

"Oh, no-no," Mrs. Hudson puffed. "he doesn't even let me dusting!"

"Exactly," A wicked smile illuminated Mycroft's face features. "take your chance to do so."

"He'll make a revolution!" The woman excused herself.

"Deal with the cleanings, Mrs. Hudson. I take care of baby Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson was undecided if she should do it or not. The flat _clearly_ needed some cleaning but Sherlock would be mad. Still, she could easily put the blame on Mycroft; those two already had too much sibling rivalry going on between them, one more thing would not affect much.

Mycroft sketched a wider smile when Mrs. Hudson walked downstairs and brought with her a dust cloth, the vacuum cleaner and a window cleaner product. While she was on her trips to the floor below, Mycroft ran the drapes. The windows were jammed and sizzled when he finally opened them because of the rust, due to the extreme use that Sherlock gives them.

As Mrs. Hudson dusted off the furniture, Mycroft was going through his brother's stuff, hiding in his pockets the several cigarettes he found along the way.

"Are you just going to snatch your brother's cigarettes? I'm _not _going to be the blame for that either!" Mrs. Hudson grumbled. "I have a bad hip. And why are you doing this to your poor brother?" She asked him, placing her hands on her hips.

"_Poor brother_…" Mycroft scoffed. "He turned my house upside down last night! I'm just setting the score right again."

"Ah," The woman sighed. "you know, John is right. You two behave like five-year-olds sometimes."

Mycroft was surprised and offended with that. "John says that?"

"Yes." She walked over and handed him the window cleaner product. "Clean the windows if you so want to _set the score right away_!"

After a while Mrs. Hudson was removing him from that task. "The windows are smeared. Have you ever cleaned in your house?"

"No," He said, stroking his tie, sitting on the couch and crossing his leg. "that's why I pay 800 pounds to my cleaning lady-"

"800 pounds?" Mrs. Hudson repeated in a high pitched voice, shocked. "Dear, do you need a new cleaning lady? I'm very much trustworthy!"

Mycroft offered a forced smile. "No, I'm very satisfied with the services of my cleaning lady."

The man checked his wristwatch, watching the woman cleaning when she started vacuuming the floor.

"Feet, up!" She ordered.

Instead of raising his feet, Mycroft preferred to get up. While the woman vacuumed the floor, he changed spots all around the flat. She turned off the vacuum cleaner and told him. "Stop being a ballerina; stay at a single place."

"Well, I would if you weren't chasing me with that."

She pretended not to hear him as she turned on the vacuum cleaner and pointed him to walk to the kitchen. As the cleanings were done, it was time to put everything back in its place, or better yet, it was time to put things in fitting places. The room seemed totally different as each thing had its place, nothing was piled and nothing was dirty.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the kitchen and said. "It looks a bit depressing; the living room so clean and the kitchen a complete mess."

"Don't hold back yourself." Mycroft spoke very gladly, gesturing to the kitchen for her to clean too.

Mrs. Hudson nodded her head, yet, she gave him a look that made him feel guilty. He rolled up his sleeves and started washing the dishes that were in the sink. The landlady was tidying the counter when she spoke.

"How come you two are brothers? One is so messy and irresponsible, and the other so neat and authoritarian."

"The bigger the job importance, the greater responsibilities there is to bear." He looked at the woman and said to her. "I _do not_ make small talk, so if you try, I'll have your voice muted in my head."

"Oh, I can see now the brothers' similarities."

No further words were heard on that flat. After Mrs. Hudson cleaned the kitchen, she walked downstairs. No much longer after Lestrade texted Mycroft that Sherlock and John were returning to the flat. Mycroft rolled down his sleeves, put on his jacket and closed the windows. On his way down, he peered into the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was very furiously (and a bit homicidally) peeling potatoes.

"I'm going. If Sherlock wants to start World War III very gladly tell him that this was my idea." He gave two steps and but walked back again. "And… apologies for what I've said earlier."

Mycroft left the flat, whirling the umbrella, walking down the street. Sherlock walked in with John, the two discussing the details of their new case when doctor stopped by the door, gazing the clean flat. The consulting detective walked in too and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"It was your brother, dear." She apologized from the floor below.

"When will you two stop behaving like five-year-olds?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him and started untidying the flat again, forgetting momentarily about the case. When he realized Mycroft had confiscated his cigarettes, he mumbled. "I need to find new person to prank."

John felt uneasy but it wouldn't be the first time he'd play a joke on him, so he wasn't actually _that_ concerned.

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**A third chapter may happen. If so, it'll only depend on your reviews and it will be about Sherlock's new person to prank...**


	3. Sherlock's new prey

**I actually struggled whether I'd write this chapter or not. I ended up doing so, at least one person asked me to do so and I keep my promises. Hope you enjoy.**

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Greg Lestrade had in his hand the most intriguing, weird and difficult case he had to deal with, without a shadow of doubt. But he did not call Sherlock to help him. His chief superintendent was still resentful about the punch John threw him two years ago, and now with all that trouble of Moriarty being back, he didn't want his division to be compromised by the "weirdo detective wannabe" as he calls Sherlock.

What he needed really was a coffee. And a doughnut. Yes, definitively a cup of steamy coffee and a jelly and sugary doughnut.

His chair spun as he got up and pulled the jacket that was resting in its back. He was dressing his blazer as he was making way out of the division. Lestrade trotted down the stairs hastily, his steps almost confused with small hops, arranging his shirt's collar. In his first stop on the café just down the street it was told to him that did not serve either coffee or doughnuts. He frowned; he always goes there and they always have coffee and doughnuts.

Strolling up the street he entered another café. Again he got the same answer. He was getting suspicious when the answer turned out to be the same when he visited a third café. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he read the message.

_You're my favourite Detective._

What the heck did Sherlock meant by that? He answered back at him with the first thought that stuck in his head.

_Are-are you flirting with me!?_

Then the right thought hit his mind: the case. Sherlock wanted to be part of the case. He grabbed his phone again and texted him.

_I'm not putting you up to this case, Sherlock!_

"It's shame, then." He said, standing behind him. Lestrade turned around startled. "No one in a five block area will sell you a cup of coffee or a doughnut either until I say the word."

"Sherlock!" He whined.

"If you change your mind you know where to find me." The consulting detective didn't say a word and started walking away, back to his flat. Lestrade scratched the back of his head and walked back to the station.

It was not even midday and he was already aching inside. He believed he was feeling worse than a pregnant woman with cravings. He then realized he was as addicted to caffeine as he was to nicotine. When he quit smoking he was having the same anxiety problems and unbearable urge to smoke, in this case, an unbearable urge to ingest caffeine. Lestrade stacked up all the case files he had about that particular murder case, got in his car and drove to 221B.

When Sherlock saw him arriving he prepared him a cup of coffee. Lestrade entered and the first thing he did was dropping over his desk the case files.

"Knock yourself up." He said defeated. "Can you now get people to sell me coffee again?"

He offered him the cup of coffee and told him. "Knock yourself up too."

Then Sherlock's attention turned to the case files as Lestrade sat on his armchair and crossed his legs, having his so deserved coffee.


	4. Sherlock's new prey II

**I didn't want to finish this fanfiction and someone suggested Sherlock pulling a prank on Donovan, so here it is.**

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The day had been tiring, aiding her boss in the investigations. All that Donovan needed was a rest. The sound of the door opening echoed through the empty flat. Sally opened the door and immediately found something intriguing that made her hand travel to the holster and keep her fingers tangled around the gun. There was a woollen yarn right in front of her eyes. With the help of nightlight that entered through the window, she realized her _whole_ was house crossed with woolen yarns, red ones.

Quietly she let the door close behind her and entered the room cautiously. She had to duck several times as the threads were messily crossing the rooms, stuck to the walls with adhesive tape. Suddenly she noticed something running around. Something glowing, furry. Her heart was racing, whatever was that, it wasn't funny anymore. Then she realized the prank _he_ had pulled on Lestrade just two days ago. That was Sherlock's thing, it had to be.

But that furry glowing thing running around was disturbing her. She didn't know what it was. So, she reached for her phone, calling Lestrade as she was carefully strolling after that mysterious glowing thing.

"_Lestrade_." He said as soon as he picked up the call.

"Sir, he entered my house, put woolen yarns all over it and there's a furry glowing thing running around."

"_He, whom?_" Lestrade was clearly too sleepy to even rationalize a thought.

"Sherlock, who else?" Donovan yelped as the furry thing ran by her. "Somebody needs to talk with him. Two days ago he pulled a prank you, and now it's on me."

"_I'll call John and tell him to have a talk with him. Now relax, will you, Sally?_"

"There's a glowing thing running around in my flat!"

Lestrade came up with a brilliant thought despise his tiredness. "Turn on the lights then."

Donovan walked to the switch to as she said. "Boss?" He mumbled an answer. "Don't hang up. Please." She approached the mysterious creature, stating rather offended, feeling ridicule. "It's a rabbit. A freaking glowing rabbit!"

"_Bluebell_." Lestrade said. "_From the Baskerville's case. Give it back to Sherlock, right away._"

"Why?" She asked in a low voice, dropping the rabbit on the floor. "Is it dangerous in any way?"

"_No, or at least I think not. But just give it to him with a straight face to prove him he didn't win the game._"

"Alright, I will. And thank you, Lestrade, for staying on the line."

"_See you tomorrow, Donovan._"

"You too, boss."

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Sally knocked on the door loudly enough to wake up half the neighborhood. Sherlock opened the door wrapped in the bed sheet and his curled hair was messed. She kept a straight face as Lestrade told her and put the rabbit on his arms.

"It wasn't funny."

He smirked and said closing the door. "Bye-bye."

Arriving to her flat again Donovan had work for almost an hour, getting rid of all the woolen yarns Sherlock had crossed her house with. She swore at him some times while furiously taking off the adhesive tape of the walls.

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**There will be a further chapter. Leave a review, please.**


	5. John turns the tables on Sherlock

**This chapter was (partially) also a suggestion. Once I've read it, I immediately knew how to write. **

**Hope you guys enjoy it.**

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John's eyelids batted each time slower, his eyes sticky and red barely holding on open. The warmth of his bed and the extreme tiredness were making his mind drift away to a dreamless night (more like morning dawn by now…) when five strong and loud pounds on the door travel to John's ears. Mary jumped off bed and ran to door while he clenched his teeth and fists, shutting his eyes tightly, hoping that the knocks didn't do any – Victoria stirred in the cot and started whimpering. He took a deep breath and clumsily made his way to his daughter.

"Is he alright?" That's the first thing Anderson mouthed.

"Uh, no," Mary responded looking back at her husband arriving the door with their whimpering daughter in arms, almost sleeping standing up. "John is sleep deprived, if it's not too obviously."

"I didn't mean _him_. Is _he _alright?" Anderson insisted, making his way inside.

"It's a girl, Philip." John mumbled. "And no she's not alright; her teeth are erupting."

"I didn't mean _her_ either. Is _he_ alright?"

"Are you impersonating a parrot?" Mary asked, shutting the door.

Anderson got of his pocket a small paper, very much creased. His hands tremble slightly while he unfolded the paper. "I found this at my door. Don't know how long it has been there." He gave the paper to John as he kept rocking his daughter in his arms. "I've been to the flat, he's not there. When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"It's skip code, Anderson." John said, giving the paper to Mary who was peeking over his shoulder. "He's alright, I guess. I don't know what is wrong with him lately, behaving like a child, playing pranks on people." Anderson didn't appear convinced by John's answer. "He's alright, trust me. I saw him last night and he was fine." The doctor said, patting his shoulder. "Do you need a ride back home?"

Anderson shrugged but then answered. "No, I'll just get going." He slightly bowed as he walked to the door. "I'm sorry for bothering you so early."

"It's okay," Mary said offering a smile, holding the door for him. "it's not like we were sleeping." Once Mary turned around, John was handing her Victoria and started walking to the bedroom. "Where-what are you doing?"

"I'll put on some clothes, take Victoria for a car ride. She loves it."

"Are you going to the flat?" She asked, walking after him.

John turned around while buttoning his shirt. "I have to. Someone needs to talk to him." When he was done dressing up he picked up the baby girl in arms. "Alright, we'll get going and you" He continued after laying a kiss on Mary's head. "get some sleep."

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One of the things that John learnt about paternity is that car rides are the best thing in the world. Put a baby to sleep in minutes, no matter how cranky or ecstatic the child is. When he arrived to Sherlock's flat, Victoria was sleeping like a little angel; her lips slightly pouted with drool running to her chin and her cheeks were really red due to the minor fever she had by now. He carefully removed Victoria out of the carrycot and walked to the flat. He arrived upstairs; Sherlock was sitting in his chair with a smile, truly pleased to see John.

"We need to talk." John promptly spoke, taking a seat across from him. "Pranking Mycroft was nice because he's a jerk. And him retaliating was acceptable too because you're a jerk sometimes too. To Lestrade it was a little less acceptable; to Donovan I couldn't see the point of that, but to Anderson? That was crossing the line, Sherlock. You know he's not alright."

"It said on the note that I was only fooling with him, it's not my fault he can't keep up with the logic." Sherlock explained.

John sighed and leaned back on the chair. "He is not alright and something worst could have happened. Why are doing these things? One month and-"

"Because I'm bored!" Sherlock shouted as he got up, making Victoria awake up again. He squirmed once he realized he had made the infant whimper.

While trotting his legs on an attempt to hush his daughter, John told him. "We've talked about this. Me being married doesn't change anything-"

"But a child does. Is it the lack of sleep that is affecting your mental faculties? How long don't you sleep?"

"Some long hours, but that's not the point."

"How come it's not the point, John? Are you suggesting in bringing in the baby to crime scenes and suspect chases? Look at this happening right now," He said pointing at John's pitiful attempt to silence Victoria. "do you really think we can be what we were before your wife giving birth to _that human crying and drooling thing_?"

"First, _this human crying and drooling thing_ has a name; it's Victoria, you know it. And second, you are her godfather," John got up and put the child in Sherlock's arms. "act like one, just for once."

Sherlock was helpless, holding the child by the armpits, away from himself. When he turned to John, to complain obviously, he found him sitting in his chair again, eyes closed. He wasn't sleeping, not _just_ yet. The man sat on the chair, yelling a silent plea of help. He wiped her mouth as drool became more abundant and immediately the six-months-old girl grabbed his finger and started chewing on it. Silence was the only thing that ruled the flat. Sherlock was perplexed as Victoria bit his index finger, soothing her pain and itchiness.

"What have I done?" He mumbled to himself, puzzled. John let out a silent chuckle that Sherlock confused with a snore.

When Mrs. Hudson made her way upstairs to leave Sherlock his morning cup of tea with milk, she stood by the door, her hand covering her mouth that insisted in being open. John was deep in his sleep, snoring, in his chair, and Sherlock sleeping as well, having his arms tightly wrapped around the baby girl who was peacefully sleeping, rested back on Sherlock's torso.

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**There will be at least one more chapter coming soon. If you have more suggestion, let me hear them. **


	6. A godfather knows best

**The parts in italic text are Sherlock's thoughts. Enjoy. ^_^**

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Everyone was gathered, melting over baby Victoria. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, incredulously looking at the scene, avoiding mingling with the visitors, though he didn't really need to try hard to do so.

_God, people behave absurdly odd when with a baby. I mean, why? _

It was Christmas day. Though John and Mary wanted to spend Victoria's first Christmas at their house, they had spent the Eve there and so they showed up at the flat to make Sherlock a little happier. Lestrade and Molly appeared too. Only Lestrade was at a corner, drinking alcoholic eggnogs, looking dejected. Sherlock deduced that he didn't get to spend Christmas with his daughter, explaining why he was _there_ as well.

Victoria could be queen of 221B by now. Sitting in her dad's chair, all eyes were on her. John jingled his keys in front of Victoria's eyes, attracting her attention. She was babbling, grasping her hands in the air, wanting to grab the keys. Mary wanted to get her attention as well.

"Don't do that," Molly said. "it will confuse her."

_Wrong, Molly. Babies' attention span is rather wide. They can focus on at least ten things at once, but they behave like any human adult, focusing on the one that appeals them the most. _

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson spoke in a high-pitched voice. "isn't she the most adorable thing in the world?"

_God, no! Mrs. Hudson, speaking in the form of an owl isn't exactly the best thing for a child. Babies prefer low-pitched sounds._

That would actually explain the fact that Sherlock's baritone voice captivates Victoria. And the fact that, whenever John's walks the flat and Sherlock is playing the violin, he plays low notes. Admitting it or not, Sherlock developed empathy for his goddaughter.

"Say mamma!" Mary asked in a baby talk tone (begged actually).

"No," John contradicted her, jingling his keys. "say dadda."

"Ma! Ma!" That was all that Victoria mumbled, which was much closer to be 'mamma' than 'dadda'.

But that wasn't a surprise. Victoria babbles by now basic stuff as 'ma' to call for Mary's attention, 'da' for John, 'bo' for the baby bottle or any food and 'ow', pointing her finger to the doors when she wants to go out.

"Pressuring her won't make her speak earlier." Lestrade pointed out.

_Smart observation, actually. Baby talk doesn't help in child's language development, neither does pressure._

"Yeah, but I have money betted on this." Mary explained.

Lestrade's voice climbed up an octave; he was dumbfounded with that thought. "You are betting on which word she'll say first?"

_I don't know why you're so surprised, Lestrade. Mary was a killer for hire and John has a natural attraction for psychopathic people; betting over their child's first word doesn't surprise me. They are as dysfunctional as I am!_

"Tori," John spoke, using the nickname he put on her. "say 'dadda'." He showed her a lollipop, continuing. "Say 'dadda' and _dadda_ will give it to you."

_Now that's a brilliant thought, bribing! Nice one, John._

"John, don't give her sweets. That makes her overactive."

_Wrong, Mary! You are a nurse, you should know that 'sugar makes children hyperactive' is nothing more than a myth._

"Ma. Ma…" Victoria started mumbling more continuously. Her parents were expectant to hear her first real word. "_Murda_."

John turned his head back, very slowly. Sherlock had that scornful full-teeth grin and a victorious expression written all over his face. "Was my child's first word 'murder'?"

Sherlock ignored him completely, focusing on the girl. "Nice one, munchkin." She giggled at her Uncle, clapping her hands.

Everyone laughed; it was actually sweet that Victoria's first word was taught by Sherlock. The only one who didn't think it was _that_ funny was John, but soon he gave up and admitted it had been adorable, if that was the best word to describe it.

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**I'm not sure if there will be more chapters, I'll certainly think of something more to add. If you have suggestions, let me hear them. **

**Reviews are always nice. **


	7. (Un) supervised

**This one is a really, really sweet chapter. To help you about their ages, here:**

**Mycroft is 14-years-old, Sherlock is 7 and Winston is 4. **

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Mycroft massaged the forehead, taking a deep breath. Sherlock ran around the house, pretending to be a pirate and Winston pretending to be a superhero. He really hated to be the eldest, having to take care of two pesky kids like his brothers. Comfortably sitting on the couch, leg crossed, he was reading a book, casually lifting his eyes at the two wild boys playing. He couldn't understand his brothers' minds anymore. How could Winston pretend that he was driving a supersonic vehicle? Why was he throwing shots at the empty spaces and seeking cover under or behind anything? How could Sherlock climb on top of the coffee table and swing his toy sword, taking steps back and forth, pretending to kill pirates? Why was he speaking to people that were not standing there?

Sherlock was Pirate Billy, running around with only his underpants, wrapped around on his bed's blanket. On his forehead he tied a necktie, put a patch on the left eye and drew a moustache and goatee with Mummy's eyeliner pencil. Armed with a plastic cutlass sword, he imagined himself slaying other pirates and forcing his captives to walk off the wooden plank extended over the side of his imaginary ship. He had sailed the seven seas, discovered a thousand treasures and looted several ships of his enemy pirates.

Winston was Captain Amazing, wearing his red pyjamas with stars in blue and yellow, barefooted. He used a plastic gun, shooting with disdain at imaginary villains, wearing as a cape Mummy's red skirt. Running from side to side in his fantastic invisible mobile, between that back-and-forth, sometimes he found himself in Mars but always returned to the mother station. He had been to the Moon and had come back, saying it was not that appealing; it was dark and cold, the ground was hard and it was difficult to keep the feet on the surface. At least he was very pragmatic about that.

It didn't actually take long for the two boys' fantasies intertwine; Sherlock was fighting his little brother with his sword, imitating the sound of the blade slicing the air and Winston was rolling over on the floor, mouthing sounds of laser shots. The two put aside their deadly weapons and grabbed two pillows from the couch. They giggled, hitting with each other, and Mycroft gazed them, feeling an outsider. He didn't get to have that when he was a kid. He was seven when Sherlock was born and ten when Winston was brought to the world. When the two little ones were old enough to play with him, he was already too old to play anything.

Books was all he got, and smarter cousins (they were smart simply because they were older than him); Mycroft was the youngest of the family at the time because Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were parents rather late. He had to outsmart his cousins somehow and then he got lonely because he got too smart and they didn't want to play with him. When he hit the age to go to school, he was already ahead every other kid and that just made him being put aside once more.

One of the pillows flew and hit Mycroft in the head. Sherlock and Winston laughed each one for his own reasons. Sherlock laughed because loved to tease his older brother, Winston laughed because he was genuinely amused. It was a surprise to them when Mycroft smiled and threw the pillow back at them. Finding it so odd, Winston tossed the pillow back at him. Mycroft laughed; something even stranger. He grabbed the other two pillows that were on the couch and threw them at his two brothers. Soon it escalated into a pillow fight between the three.

Listening to genuine laughter, their parents, recently arrived home, walked to the living room and firstly were shocked with what their sons had done. The whole room was a complete mess, feathers from a ripped pillow were all over the floor, but they couldn't be, not even a tiny bit angry. The two boys were laughing, and so was Mycroft. That was something that they didn't see every day, or any day before. Neither of the three noticed their parents, heart melted, gazing them. That was something that wouldn't last for much long, so they watched them, keeping quiet and hidden.


	8. John's actually quite smart

**Eight chapters and still going. Thank you for your love!**

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John climbed up the stairs, announcing. "I'm here to collect Victoria."

The girl, upon listening to her father calling, got herself on her feet and walked to him. Sherlock froze.

"John, I'm really sorry." Sherlock said; actually sorrow mirrored in his face. "I didn't…"

The doctor laughed for Sherlock despise, holding his daughter's hand on his. Sherlock was _actually_ sorry and couldn't understand why John was laughing.

_Two hours before_

John showed up at 221B holding Victoria in his arms. Mary waited for her husband in the car and waved her hand at Sherlock when he appeared at the door. Almost as an immediate move, Victoria wanted to go to Sherlock's arms.

"Sherlock," John started. "I know this is our wedding anniversary, but if she walks, you call me, alright?"

The detective obviously made sure to ignore John's needless advice. He simply picked up his niece in arms and told him, after inspecting his attire. "Mary is ovulating; use protection unless you want to conceive another child."

John's face display pure shock. "What?"

"About eight days ago she displayed the typical reactions of a woman on her menstruation cycle. Your attire is fancy and you've put on extra cologne; you are expecting sexual intercourse. Should I attempt to put Victoria to sleep then?"

"Just call me if she walks, alright?" He simply said, walking to the car.

Sherlock sat Victoria on the couch and looked at her, deep thinking. A child of her age should, at least, be able to take some clumsy steps. He was sure that Victoria was smart enough and well developed to do so, why couldn't she?

"Touch your nose." He told her, gesturing what he wanted her to do. She did it easily.

For the next minutes Sherlock tried other things such as touching the lips, the ears, the eyes, the feet. She was doing it with ease; she had great sensorial and motor skills, why couldn't she walk? That thought was upsetting him. He thought of helping her how to give her first steps but soon gave up on the thought. That would have to be John and Mary's task, and they'd want to see themselves their child's first steps, unlike what happened with her first word ever.

Victoria jumped down from the couch and stood on her feet, holding herself steadily. Sherlock stopped just to watch her and then run to pick her up before she walked completely carefree. That had been an accident. An important milestone on her development, but an accident. John might take it offensively because he'd never believe Victoria simply stood up on her feet and walked. He gave him that warning, and Sherlock knows himself that when he's told not to do something, that's exactly what he ends up to do.

For the next two hours, Sherlock rushed to pick her up and walked with her in arms so she wouldn't walk. For once, at least, he'd try to be serious and fulfil John's request. But it was a hard task. Victoria wriggled and kicked in his arms as a way of protest, wanting to be put on the floor. He tried _everything_ he could to keep her distracted, but nothing worked. And neither did she fell asleep. In no time John was back from the dinner, as like what happened two hours before, Mary waited in the car and Victoria was wide awake.

John climbed up the stairs, announcing. "I'm here to collect Victoria."

The girl, upon listening to her father calling, got herself on her feet and walked to him. Sherlock froze.

"John, I'm really sorry." Sherlock said; actually sorrow mirrored in his face. "I didn't…"

The doctor laughed for Sherlock despise, holding his daughter's hand on his. Sherlock was _actually_ sorry and couldn't understand why John was laughing. "She's been walking for the past four days, but as you didn't see her since, you didn't know."

"Why did you do this then?"

"To keep you occupied." He explained. "She loves to walk and I can't even imagine your struggle in keeping up with my request."

Sherlock said completely calm. "I could have easily deduced that she can walk."

"No you couldn't." The other promptly denied.

"Yes, I could." Sherlock insisted, walking closer to them. "And just by simply looking at her shoes." With a defying smirk John picked up his daughter in arms and let him examine her shoes. "Worn out on the toe-cap, outsole…" He stopped; that wasn't right. "brand new."

"I put on her some shoes she used when she crawled. That way the outsoles would be brand new and you'd never deduce that she can walk… You're not upset, are you?" John asked him.

"No. That was brilliant, John." Sherlock's smile grew wider. John had outsmarted him and he didn't mind at all. He knew John was quite smart.

John smiled as well and then spoke. "We should get going now. It's getting late and Victoria needs to go to bed."


	9. Mummy Holmes is just a Mummy

Mothering Sunday. Oh, just another holiday that doesn't appeal to anyone. Well, anyone but every mother in the world, and Mummy Holmes is no exception. That's the day when Mycroft and Sherlock swear to be at their best behaviour and do the best to please Mummy. Obviously that promise only last for a few minutes. It's always the same every year. The two arrive, neat (and that means _no ties, waistcoats, scarves or any coat of any type_) and handsome just like Mummy likes; the two give her the little something they've found convenient to gift her with and then she brings the photo album.

_Every year_ and she still does the same, knowing the reaction it causes on the two of them. Needless to say that she repeats the act year after year because she can never go through all the pages with her two sons. They always start quarrelling and spoil the day. Sherlock even regresses to his children years and claims that Mummy has a lot more embarrassing photos of him than she has of Mycroft, giving his brother the lead to mock him.

This year, the two chose not to care. They'd keep a straight face, sitting on the couch, one at each side of Mummy as she'd happily flip the pages. The first photos of a family album are always the ones when the children are little babies, in the bathtub or sleeping cosily tucked in a blanket. Those are the kinds of photos the brothers avoid to look at; too much _nakedness_ and _cuteness_. Besides, in years before, they've pick on each other about those photos. Then the album moves on to toddler years' shots. The boys are either very tidy and good-looking or a complete mess and full of bruises. Still, no comments came out of _Mikey_ or _Billy_'s mouths.

But no family album goes on without the school years photos. They hadn't reached those before. Father Holmes looked at the two, visibly anxious and fearful. Mycroft was the first one to take a discreet peep at the page. He pursed his lips and looked away as Sherlock laid his eyes on him. Would he dare to comment? Of course he would!

"Sherlock's first school play." Mycroft started, much to Sherlock's annoyance. "Wasn't he so _precious_" The word was purposely chosen by Mycroft as he glared his mother with a smirk. "as Grumpy?"

"My boy is always precious." She answered with a smile, caressing her son's face as he attempted to dodge the love display.

Sherlock was sat one of the stage's steps with a _very much_ amused expression in his face, quite matching his character's one. He wore a fake red big nose and a long white beard. The brownish hat in his head covered his curled hair, and Daddy's red shirt was long enough to cover him down to his knees. A black belt held the shirt's fabric around his waist and on his feet he wore brown shoes. He'd be pleased with the wardrobe if he wasn't wearing tights. It wasn't enough to have been pointed out to play that character because all of his classmates thought he was very much alike Grumpy? Did he really have to be the class' laughingstock because of the tights?

Sherlock couldn't wait for his revenge. Tapping his finger over the next photo, he commented. "Look at chubby Mikey," Mycroft nearly gave himself a torticollis from turning his head so slowly and stiffly at Sherlock. "so happy with his chocolates." He then chuckled. "Do you remember that he had severe cases of "sleepwalking" but all his trips always ended up at the fridge?"

"I _had_ sleepwalking problems." Mycroft snarled.

Father Holmes shared a chuckled with his youngest son, claiming. "He'd keep sweets hidden all over the house. I'd find sweets and wrappings in the back of the sofa."

"Now why won't you go looking there when you lose your glasses?" His wife retorted, defending her oldest son. "Mikey is not and never was fat." Mycroft couldn't help but to have a small victory smile on his lips.

"Ah," Mycroft interjected upon seeing another photograph. "_Billy_'s ninth anniversary gift; he never really managed to solve it."

"What is the purpose of twisting a worthless plastic cube just to match six colours?" Sherlock answered back, completely relaxed. What was the point really of solving a Rubik's Cube? He could never do it, so what? Was he supposed to be able to possess all possible abilities existent in the world?

Mycroft was the object of Sherlock's mockery on the next photograph. He was about eleven-years-old at that time. He had a thick head of brown hair, greasy due to the overuse of hair product. That was how Aunt Helen loved her nephew; sticky but perfectly combed haired, wearing shorts, a plain white shirt and braces. Sitting on the lap of his extremely round Aunt, he had a nauseating expression on his face, forcing a smile for the photo as he held in his hand a small envelope. Maybe the reason for his face was the fact that the hair product was intoxicating him. Or maybe the clothes were too tight. Perhaps even because he really disliked Aunt Helen. Well, that one was one of the reasons. The other reason was because that envelope had money in it and it was supposed to be part of his gift for Aunt Helen and he really hated envelopes that required him to lick. Nowadays it's Anthea who does that for him when the envelopes are too primitive and need saliva to be sealed. But in that day, there was no Anthea and certainly no Sherlock willing to lick the envelope for him. Mummy was getting angry because Helen was arriving and he still had it open. Not even the poor Redbeard stuck out its tongue to aid the boy. That was why he was so disgusted looking in the photo; he had just lick the envelope minutes ago and that taste was still lingering in his mouth.

"From this day on Mycroft developed irrational anger towards envelopes that require him to lick." Sherlock said.

"Oh, remember when you hit puberty and your voice broke in middle solo?" Mycroft responded, seeing the photo of his fifteen-year-old brother in the choir uniform. "From that day on Sherlock developed irrational anger when asked to sing."

"Who would want me to sing?"

"People who never appreciated your violin screeching!" Giving it a thought, Mycroft mended. "Perhaps being quiet every once in a while would be more useful."

The two started arguing as they rose from the couch and walked to the backyard. Father Holmes got up as well, and caressing his wife's arm he said. "At least they lasted more today."

Both Mycroft and Sherlock were startled and quickly hid the cigarette behind their backs, but let out a relieved sigh as they realized it was their father. Offering him a cigarette, the three were smoking in the backyard. Their mother, still in the living room ran her fingers over one particular photo. She, better than anyone, knows that Mycroft and Sherlock start quarrelling when they see a photo of Winston, their brother. They don't want their Mummy to suffer even more; all they did tell her was that he was missing and that they never got news from him ever since, which was actually true.

Although, Mummy Holmes is allowed to have one little secret of her own too. While her sons and her husband are smoking in the backyard, a slender man figure walked in the living room. She looked back and smiled.

"_Georgie_!"

Winston is supposed to be hidden but when it comes to Mother's Day, he shows up for a brief moment. The two hugged with much affection; you see, Winston is more like Father Holmes. He's smart too but allows himself to be more sentimentalist.

"Have they bickered everything already?"

Mummy Holmes chuckled, caressing her son's face. "They are in the backyard, having a smoke with your father."

"I just came by to give you a hug but today I left a little something for the two crying babies!"

"You may be the youngest but you are the mature one." She said on a laugh.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Mummy."

A little after he left the house as quick and discreetly as he entered. When the three men were making their way inside, Mycroft and Sherlock stopped by the door as their father continued to walk in. Over the kitchen table were a chocolate bar and Rubik's Cube.

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**I'm open to suggestions and I love reviews. Either one you'd give to give me...**


	10. Grown up men throwing tantrums

**I'd like to thank ObservationofTrifles for the wonderful reviews. I can't because you have the PM feature turned off. **

**A big thank you for my other readers who appear to be shier and don't tend to leave reviews.**

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The atmosphere was tense, not even a single breath was to be heard more soundly. Sherlock and Lestrade were sitting in the chairs, facing each other. Mycroft supported his weight on the umbrella and John had his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene.

"Alright," The doctor began. "this is getting ridiculous."

"This is far from being ridicule." Mycroft said. "Brother dear needs to learn some things."

Sherlock turned his head at Mycroft; his deep baritone voice coming out like a roar. "I'm not the only one to blame on this."

"Yes, true," Mycroft added. "but now behave like a grown up man and grow a pair."

John frowned and looked at Mycroft; those were not the kind of words he ever imagined coming out of that so composed man's mouth.

"I can search this whole flat and find _her_." Lestrade threatened. "I choose not to; you'll give _her_ back to me."

This all situation began no more than an hour before, and Mycroft and John had been staring the two detectives for the past quarter of an hour.

Now that Victoria was staying with Mrs. Hudson (who promptly accepted to be her nanny until she'd hit the required age to be enrolled on nursery school) and Mary was back on the work, John was freer to restart crime solving with Sherlock. Lestrade happened to have a particular bizarre and interesting case between hands, and this one he'd not let Sherlock intervene. The DI wanted to solve it himself, as he said to Sherlock. Obviously that was an answer that didn't plea the consulting detective. He tried to play the same trick of having no-one selling him coffee or doughnuts, but Lestrade didn't fell for it this time and resigned himself to drinking the crappy coffee at the police station. As his plan failed, Sherlock sneaked into Lestrade's house he abducted his so precious _Abbey_.

Who is _Abbey_ you wonder? _Abbey_ is Lestrade much esteemed Gibson J-160E guitar, the one he bought early in his life. He worked a lot to earn the money to buy it; 628 pounds he claims it cost him. Still, _Rocky_, his Fender Esquire, also bought in his teen years, wasn't that much cheaper, 507 pounds was marked on the price tag young Gregory rip off the guitar once he purchased it.

Once Sherlock arrived at the flat carrying a black hard shell case, John found it strange; Sherlock was up to something. Opening the case, Sherlock picked it up by the neck he looked at the guitar, much esteemed but with a few (minor) scratches on the body. The centre of guitar's body was sunburst coloured; its lighter colour gradually darkening towards the edges before hitting the dark rim. The tuning pegs were a bit slack due to the much use. The strings were new, recently changed, and the guitar's body, dust-free, shined because of the use of a good polishing product. Lestrade had a great appreciation for the guitar, no doubt. He strummed the six strings with his thumb, the guitar let out six perfectly tuned notes; Lestrade had played with it recently.

Of course Sherlock's break-in was immediately reported to the police. Lestrade's neighbours, knowing that he is a Scotland Yard detective, phoned him. The man rushed home only to find everything in its exact same place, even his breakfast mug in the sink to be rinsed later. The only thing really missing was _Abbey_. Why a guitar? And why _Abbey_ and not _Rocky_? Or both? It didn't take Lestrade too long to realize that that was Sherlock's doing. _Rocky_ is scratched and not so well treated as _Abbey_, all result of his teenage years spent playing in pubs. Following Sherlock's logics of deduction, he realized why he took _Abbey_; more decently treated meant more attachment. Still, that wasn't a good logic of thought because Lestrade loves dearly both his guitars.

But would Lestrade let Sherlock 'kidnap' one of his so precious guitars and not do anything? Of course not! First of all he whined to Mycroft about Sherlock and then broke into his flat and stole his Stradivarius. He was not going to let him in on the case, so that way they were even. Who would say that Sherlock was particularly picky about people holding his violin? Well, too bad, Lestrade thought, so he was picky about people holding his guitars. And so neither of them was going to give up, staring each other for the past hour. John found the situation concerning after witnessing five minutes of their tenacity, and Mycroft, who has eyes everywhere, texted his brother to return Lestrade's guitar. Sherlock didn't care about the request, as usual; Lestrade wasn't the only one being coerced. The big brother showed up on the flat and so far, no progress. Lestrade wouldn't hand Sherlock his violin until he'd give him _Abbey_.

"You do know all three of you are acting like five-year-olds?" John commented. Being a father has given him a much clearer insight of child's behaviour, and those three displayed the exact reaction of two sulky kids and a bossy boy.

"Do you happen to have a brilliant resolution for this problem, John?"

"Actually yes." He spoke, walking to Sherlock's bedroom. "How about you stop acting like a sulky child, a drama queen and a cocky kid?" The three men took offence on John's comment, but the doctor couldn't care any less. Picking up the guitar case he gave it to Lestrade and told him. "Now bring back the violin."

Lestrade answered after tightening the grip on the guitar case. "I don't have it."

The DI was followed to the door by Mycroft. "Like I said," As he swirled his umbrella, he derisively said. "brother dear needs to learn some things."

"Mycroft, give me my violin!" Sherlock yelled at him from the top of the stairs.

Looking up at Sherlock, he said. "I will once you behave."

Sherlock was annoyed and returned to the room upstairs. He didn't have a case and he didn't have his violin.

"Argh, God," He growled. "I'm bored!"

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**I accept reviews, suggestions and those two guitars I've mentioned in the chapter. If anyone wants to be generous, I'll be happy to give you my address so you can send them to me! xD**


	11. Three can fool John

**I've been wanting to post a new chapter here but I've been busy. Finally I could write it down and post it. Hope you enjoy. **

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John had left for grocery shopping. It was main task (as it always had been) now that he was back at living at 221B. After Mary's death, he and Victoria moved to Baker Street and they have been having a quite harmonious-tumultuous life in the flat. Mostly things sail smoothly according to the wind that blows. Victoria, or munchkin as Sherlock insisted in calling her, (because she's a lot smaller and lighter than a normal child of her age) was now four of age and going to nursery school. Whenever John or Sherlock couldn't collect her, Mrs. Hudson would go, and she looks after her whenever John and Sherlock are out solving cases. As I said, life went smoothly and as normal as it could be expected.

"Uncle Sherlock?" The sing-song sweet young voice of Victoria reached Sherlock's ears. The look on his eyes was inquisitive as he saw Victoria walking to him. She climbed on top of his legs and snuggled up on his lap. "Why do I have to go to school?"

"That's something you have to ask your father."

"I did already!" She said. "He said I have to go because I have to."

"Well, if he says so, he's probably right." Sherlock simply told her. He had stopped, as John said, filling Victoria's head with 'toxic ideas of rebellion against the natural order of the world'. If John's the father, he knows what's better for his daughter.

"But people go to school to learn, right?"

"Yes."

"Did you learn anything in nursery school?" Sherlock chose not to answer. His personal experiences about school were the 'toxic ideas' that John prefers that Sherlock keeps to himself. "I'm only four," She claimed. "what can I learn there?"

"If your father says you have to go, you have to go."

"Can't you help me faking being sick?"

"No."

"Please." She begged, looking into his eyes as he avoided eye contact. "Just for tomorrow."

"There are three reasons why children don't want to school. Number one, when they hit their teen years and want to skip classes, clearly not your case. Number two, when they are genius children and feel everything is utterly boring, again, not your case. And third, when they are bullied. Who bullies you, munchkin?"

"No-one." She said. Feeling Sherlock gaze intensifying over her, she continued. "It's just Ms. Langford who is always asking about you. She says she really likes you."

"Uhm," Sherlock hummed. "well, then I'll have a talk with your teacher and ask her to stop bugging you, alright?"

Victoria nodded her head and asked. "But can I at least stay at home tomorrow? I wanna stay with Mrs. Hudson, eating biscuits and watching telly."

Sherlock smirked, recalling his many successful feigned illnesses. Letting Victoria skip a day of nursery wouldn't hurt. Besides, she seemed legitimately tired of her Sherlock-obsessed teacher. "All you have to do is to pretend to be tired tomorrow morning and come to me. I take care of the rest."

Victoria sketched a full-teeth grin, telling him. "You're the best, Uncle Sherlock."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, now" He lifted up Victoria and put her on her feet on the floor. "go do stuff. I'm busy."

"Can I help you picking a case for you and Daddy?" She asked him, attempting to carry John's laptop.

"You better choose a good one this time."

When John arrived carrying the groceries, he saw Sherlock sitting in his chair with the laptop over his legs and Victoria fitted on his lap; the two looking avidly at the screen. Sherlock was reading the cases to her so she'd choose one.

* * *

"Victoria Elizabeth Watson," John spoke starting to get impatient. He never calls her Victoria (mostly he uses Tori) and let alone her full name unless he's reaching the edge. "get out of bed, we're gonna be late." Playing according to what was planned in the day before Victoria dragged herself out of bed and slowly walked to find Sherlock. "Where are you going?" John asked her, holding her clothing as she left the bedroom.

Sherlock was putting on his scarf and coat when he felt something tugging his trousers' leg. Looking down he found the little girl with a completely defeated look on her face, gloomily rubbing her eyes. Sherlock had to tip his hat off at Victoria; she could quite well fake being sick.

After looking here and there in the smallest of the places Victoria could have hidden herself, John finally stopped seeing Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room, having Victoria balled up on his arms. "I believe she is sick."

John's frown soothed as he turned overly concerned. "Come here," He tried to take her of Sherlock's arms, but she buried her face in her Uncle's chest. "let Daddy see how you are. Where does it hurt?"

"My tummy," She mumbled against Sherlock's shirt. "and my head."

"It's the flu, John. It'll be better if she stays at home; she might develop fever or get worse."

Sighing, John said. "I'll talk with Mrs. Hudson." As he was by the door, ready to go downstairs, he asked Sherlock. "Can you put her to bed, please?"

"Shh," Sherlock ordered as Victoria wanted to start giggling. "you're good at this, don't blow it now."

Mrs. Hudson accompanied John to the girl's bedroom upstairs. Sherlock covered her up to her neck and she feigned a very convincing coughing attack once she saw her father and the landlady. Seeing the complicit glance exchange between Victoria and Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson promptly recognized the girl wasn't sick. Only John, who as a father, was concerned and didn't notice any of that.

"Maybe I shouldn't go today-"

"That's silly." Mrs. Hudson told John. "You can go, I watch the little girl." She said as she pushed him out of the door.

"Let's get going, John," Sherlock helped, placing his hand on his back and forcing him to walk out the door. "Mrs. Hudson will take good care of munchkin."

"Mrs. Hudson?" Victoria asked in a very frail and low voice. "Can I have some of your chocolate biscuits to make me feel better?"

The old woman laughed and said. "Let's get you dressed. I know you're not sick."

Victoria jumped off bed, giggling. "Daddy is a doctor and I tricked him."

"Before being a doctor, your father is your father. He will always believe in you, love."


	12. Surprise! (Literally a surprise…)

**This isn't one of the best chapters I've wrote, but I had to use this prompt and the idea naturally flown. **

_The murder mystery party was quite enjoyable; that is, until the lights turned on. We were shocked to find her really, truly dead._ **[Sent by ****Aeternus . Flamma**]

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I must say I do not understand why people insist on celebrating birthdays. What is the point of celebrating the fact that we turn a year older? And then there's always that one person that comes up and offers a balloon. I mean, balloons are so weird. "Happy birthday, here's a plastic sack of my breath." It confuses my brain. But John insisted we should come. It was Gre…Gra…Ga… I give up, really! It was Lestrade's birthday. Apparently it is a big milestone to reach the fiftieth anniversary.

His friends and colleagues from the police station were throwing him a surprise party. The idea was pretty well conceived, I must say: murder mystery party. For days they had been sending Lestrade these weird messages, indicating that there might be a murderer warning him about his victim. Lestrade came to me with those notes, and if at first I started aiding him, it didn't last for long. In that same day John told me that it was all a play and that I should play along.

"Can I stand up?" I whispered at John. "The-"

"No, stay down," He said, placing the hands on my shoulders and made me duck again. "we have to wait for Greg to come."

"This is ridiculous." I mumble. "I have something important to show you, John!"

"Shh!" He hissed. I wanted to show him something important but John made sure to ignore me.

Lestrade's friends got this small pub he so likes to come as the place to throw him the surprise party. The owner agreed that they could the place for the night as long as everyone would buy from him the drinks. No problem, apparently. And as it seemed I was the only that had noticed that the woman that was supposed to play dead was far too committed to her role. No-one hadn't realized she was dead!

"Surprise!" They all shouted as they got up and someone turned on the lights again. I was the only one who stood up two seconds later and could be compared to the musician who finishes after the conductor's cue.

The look on his face was genuine and softened. He seemed upset for not having an answer to the murderer case but once he entered the pub, he started giving hugs to everyone. There wasn't a single person in there who didn't wish him 'happy birthday'. Well, I did not certainly as I walked to the blonde woman lying on the floor. His friends were still explaining him all about the notes he had been receiving and how they were fake. Actually, not so fake.

"Get up, Clarisse," One of them shouted. "Greg knows it's a prank already."

"I'm afraid Clarisse won't be getting up anymore," I began. "she's dead."

The murder mystery party was quite enjoyable; that is, until the lights turned on. We were shocked to find her really, truly dead. Well, everyone was shocked to find her really, truly dead; I wasn't. John rushed to check on her pulse and affirmed. "She's dead indeed."

"Oh bloody hell!" Lestrade shouted. "This was not a fake."

"No-one leaves this pub," I announced. "the killer is in here."

"I got my cuffs," Lestrade told me as he drank a shot of vodka. "do your thing, Sherlock."

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**Next chapter I'll make it up to you. It is about Mycroft poetry talent during school years, an ode about pastries and blackmailing from a Holmes boy.**


	13. Devilish sweet requests

**Writing the ode was easy, finding a way to put it in the story was harder. But I came up with an idea. Hope you enjoy it.**

**This is narrated as Winston Holmes, the third brother I picture to be, who looks like Tom Hiddleston.**

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Slipping a note into 221B would be easy, getting Sherlock's attention, not so much. I couldn't go to the flat and risk having John Watson seeing me there. I'd need to create a diversion, so that I'd attract his attention and I'd get a place to meet with him. Sherlock only meets up in places he feels absolutely safe, unless of course the case is intriguing enough and then he gets out of his comfort zone. Me, I'm not in the position to attract enough his attention in order to manipulate the place of our meeting, so he'd have to let him choose it. Then, I could turn my thoughts to Mycroft. Sending him a message and manipulating the meeting place is something rather easy as he is a MI-6 agent and will go everywhere the circumstances force him to.

I can see Sherlock walking closer and closer to me. I've been acting on this plan for a couple of days already. I know that now I can get his full attention because this will be our third "accidental" meeting. First time, I disguised as a beggar on the street and asked for a coin, grabbing his leg, but always keeping my head low. His loyal doctor companion ended up giving me a pound. Second time, I pretended to be an Evangelic pastor and kept on insisting to stroll next to him. I faked my voice and accent so that he wouldn't recognize me. Now it's the third time. Two times is a coincidence; three times is a pattern. That was the only way I could get Sherlock's attention without giving on my identity.

"Mister, Mister," I speak, voice disguised very poorly I must admit. "would you be interested in buying a wristwatch?"

"No, back off-"

I cut him off his speech by grabbing his arm. "I want to be part of your network."

Sherlock inspects me, as I do my best to hide my face. "I've seen you before. The beggar, the Evangelic pastor," Taking a small breath, he continued. "Speedy's café in one hour."

I smirk as he walks away. It worked. Now Mycroft…

* * *

"Sir," Anthea says, walking into her boss' office. "a letter has arrived for you. No return address."

Stretching his hand without even lifting up his look, Mycroft tells her. "Give it to me and then leave."

After having the envelope on his hand and hearing the door closing, Mycroft examines the mysterious envelope. He smells it and makes sure there's nothing harmful about it. Ripping it open, he finds a single paper sheet that he reads.

_Remember 5__th__ grade and those useless poems everyone would have to write? I remember yours, chubby Mikey. An ode to fairy cakes…_

_Nanny bakes fairy cakes,_

_Grab them before my brother all takes._

_Oh, sweet pastry_

_your chocolate fluffy batter_

_is something that my weight hates._

_Rainbow sprinkles colour your top_

_and my diet turns into a flop._

_Dances on my tongue the chocolate buttercream,_

_Oh why, fairy cake, did you have to be so mean?_

_Uhm, your mouth-watering smell_

_For you, small pastry, I instantly fell._

_There you go, happy now?_

_A pound I've gained, you've met your goal, take the bow!_

_Want a fairy cake? Meet with me at Speedy's café in an hour._

Intrigued by the content of the letter Mycroft presumed it may have come from Sherlock. He wondered why his brother would have given himself that much of trouble to get a meeting with him, but he knew he couldn't question his brother. He'd always be a world apart everyone else's, so he'd never go by the book.

* * *

Should I be surprised that my two brothers are quarrelling? Of course not; this is common practice, has always been. I can count with the fingers of only one hand the times the three of us were in harmony. We are brothers and we are little boys trapped inside big men's bodies.

"Take a seat, Mikey," I voice as I seat in front of Sherlock and Mycroft is just standing there with that omnipresent umbrella of his.

"Oh, of course," He growls as he looks at my face. His brows frown, his forehead wrinkles and he puts on a scornful smile. "thank you for gracing us with your presence."

"Still as heart-warming as I remember." I joke back.

Mycroft smiles clearly unpleased and takes a seat next to Sherlock. "Will you two take your chitchat somewhere else? I'm here on business."

"I was the one, you idiot!" I tell Sherlock. "Getting pretty slow, Sherley."

"He has always been slow." Mikey insists on poking fun of Sherlock. "Anyhow, what are doing here?"

"I want to get back in the game. I've accomplished my mission and I believe I have the right to resurrected and for that I'll need-"

"Resurrect…" Sherlock scoffs.

"Yes, I do believe I have my rights in wanting to do, don't I?" I vaguely suggest. "I've been dead for over two years; I think I have a special privilege."

Sherlock leans forward over the table and says. "I faked my death because of necessity."

"Right, and I faked my death for fun?"

"Why am I doing here exactly?" Mycroft grumbles.

I raise my hand and call the waiter. "Get my brother a fairy cake. He gets a little cranky when he's sugar deprived." As the woman walks away, I continue. "As I was saying…" I carry on telling them about my plan.


	14. The case of the last biscuit's disappear

**Sorry it took me a little longer. Here's the new chapter.**

* * *

Victoria arrived from school and very carelessly dropped her schoolbag on the floor. Her attention turned to the dish she had left over the table. Mrs. Hudson had baked her some biscuits the day before and she left one to eat after she'd come home from school.

"Mrs. Hudson," Victoria started quietly, looking at the empty dish. "where is my last biscuit? I left it here this morning."

The landlady shrugged. "Perhaps you ate it and don't remember it."

Victoria took offence on that and grabbed a pencil and a notepad as the old woman made her way downstairs.

_The case of the last biscuit's disappearance_

"_A biscuit disappears from a dish in rather unexplainable circumstances."_

_Evidence found: crumbles and a button_

_Suspect number 1: Mrs. Hudson_

_Motive: not quite sure_

With little hops, Victoria walked down to the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson, what did you do this morning?"

"I went grocery shopping and then I did some exercise before cooking lunch. You know, I have to exercise my hip every now and then. After lunch, I had tea with Rosalie from across the street. Oh, her grandson is just lovely and-"

"Skip the details, what did you do next?"

"I picked you up at school, like your father asked me. Why does it matter, dear?"

After scribbling something some things on the notepad, Victoria said. "It may be crucial to know if you are guilty or not."

The woman didn't have time to question what she meant by that because she was already climbing up the stairs.

_Motive: may have grown tired of baking me biscuits._

Victoria was focused on her homework when Mrs. Hudson came by. "Do you want me to bake you another batch of biscuits?" She knows how much the girl loves her biscuits.

Before answering, she grabbed the notepad and added. _Motive: may have grown tired of baking me biscuits. Unlikely scenario. Suspect exonerated. _"Can I help you?"

"Well, of course," The lady said, caressing her hair. "just finish your homework first."

* * *

John frowned at what he saw. Victoria was sitting on Sherlock's chair, with a small notepad on her lap and a pencil in her hand. Over the table, an empty dish with some crumbles only and a paper placed on the edge of the table saying "Crime scene, do not touch". He then smiled upon reading that and as he laid his eyes on his daughter again, the smile disappeared due to the straight face the girl was pulling.

"What is going on?"

"Glad that you arrived," she said. "take a seat." Victoria pointed to the chair in front and then flipped some pages of the notepad and started writing.

_Suspect number 2: John Watson_

_Motive: he is my daddy and says that I shouldn't eat too many biscuits._

"What would your interest be in eating the last biscuit that was on that" She pointed with the pencil. "dish this morning?"

"So this is what this is about?"

"I've asked you a simple question," Victoria remained with a blank face. "I expect you to answer it."

"No, I didn't eat the biscuit. As a matter of fact, I didn't even see it."

"Where were you this morning?"

John smiled as he crossed his leg. "Working."

"At what time did you leave?"

"Uhm," The doctor's fingers tapped the armrest of the chair. "around 8:45?"

"Uh-uhm…" Victoria mumbled, adding to the paper. _Alibi: left to work around 8:45, before the disappearance of the biscuit_. "Alright, thank you."

"Do you have any more suspects?" John inquired curious.

"Yes, I do," The two looked at the door as Sherlock entered. "and one of them has just arrived."

_Suspect number 3: Sherlock Holmes_

_Motive: Hunger._

_Proof against him: a shirt button found near the crime area._

"Was it you?" Victoria immediately dropped on Sherlock.

"Was it me what?" He replied confused.

"The one who ate my last biscuit?"

Sherlock walked to her and grabbed her, putting her on her own feet so he could sit on his chair. "I take no interest on biscuits, let alone food itself."

_Alibi: left to work around 8:45, before the disappearance of the biscuit_. _Doesn't take interest on food. _After taking her notes, she slipped her hand into her pants' pocket and showed him the small button on the palm of her hand. "Then how do you explain this?"

"That button isn't mine."

When Sherlock gave her that answer, she frowned. "So, it doesn't seem likely that a button fell from you shirt while you ate my last biscuit? You wear overly small shirts and all the buttons seem to be bursting the seams."

"You can check all my shirts. It's not mine. It seems costum made, part of a tailored-suit."

Victoria's eyes widened and she started running downstairs, already calling at the top of her lungs. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh dear." The woman sighed. Now it was Victoria calling her like that too, not just Sherlock. When those two get excited, they get excited big time. "Was anyone else at the flat this morning?" The little one asked, arrived at the kitchen downstairs.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson put the dish cloth on the counter and started walking upstairs. "Sherlock's brother was here and wanted to speak with him. I was forgetting to tell him about it."

"Chubby idiot," Victoria puffed walking after Mrs. Hudson. "hope he gets chocked next time he decides to eat one of my biscuits." Looking at Sherlock, she told him. "You're off the hook, Uncle Sherlock," she then turned her eyes to her father. "and you too daddy."

Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock the message and then ran downstairs to take the batch of biscuits of the oven.

* * *

After a while, Mrs. Hudson came with a dish full of biscuits and a glass of milk. Victoria jumped to her father's lap and started having the snack.

"Can I have one?" John asked.

Victoria giggled. "Just one, daddy." She put a biscuit in his mouth, telling him. "I helped Mrs. Hudson making these."

"Uhm," John hummed. "they taste good. No wonder why Mycroft ate one."

"He just ate one because he can't control himself and he's heartless enough to eat a child's last biscuit." Sherlock explained, taking a biscuit too.

"Uncle Sherlock!" Victoria whined, pretending to be upset. John smiled and was surprised; Sherlock eats very little, so that was a major step.

"What? It wasn't your last biscuit."

_Mycroft Holmes found guilty._

_Case closed._


End file.
